Seeds of the White Tree

Chapter 22 - A Gift of Sand

OoOoO

Arwen Undómiel of Imladris had always loved weaving, and Queen Arwen of Gondor was no different. The glide of the shuttle in and out of the cords of the warp created a certain trance-like sort of peace, one which Arwen tended to seek out especially when her mind was restless.

Letting her deft fingers pick their way across the loom, Arwen basked in the sound of birdsong and laughter outside the solar window. The mid-morning sun shone rich and warm through the ripening leaves of ivy which grew twined across the corner of the window. A tinge of brownish-gold lined the edges of the leaves, heralding the days in the very near future when all the leaves in the White City and beyond would turn and fall. Today though the sun still held its warmth, and outside on the lawn of the Citadel the children were amusing themselves.

Children...not so anymore, truly, thought Arwen to herself. Indeed, Eldarion was of age now, with Elboron and Eruthiawen hard on his heels. The others would follow into adulthood soon enough, and before long the days of childhood in the royal household would be over. The shuttle passed back and forth before Arwen's eyes without her consciously marking its progress. It was good that the young people were all outdoors enjoying the sunlight together; by sundown tonight young Sufyan and his father would be gone, on their way back to their City of Many Waters so far away in Harad.

A playful shriek arose, startling the sparrows perched on the windowsill. Almárëa, undoubtedly. Laughter followed in the merry voices of Elfwine and Eldarion, with Eruthiawen admonishing her sister for carrying on so. A smile quirked the corner of Arwen's lips. All of her children were so different from one another, and yet so alike herself and Aragorn. It was because of the latter that Arwen knew, one-by-one, she would have to let them go.

Túrien would be the first. Bright, fearless Túrien, oh so young and yet oh so ready. Arwen sighed as she went back to re-pick a missed stitch in the weft. By the reckoning of her grandfather's people, Túrien was but a small child. By the reckonings of Men, Túrien was not yet a woman full-grown. By Arwen's reckoning though, she knew from two-and-a-half thousands springs come and gone when a chick was ready to spread its wings and fly the nest. She had always seen the wildness in her middle daughter's stormy gaze from the first time Túrien ever opened her eyes. That wildness burned all the brighter ever since Túrien had returned from Harmindon with the chieftain's young son at her side. It was more than that though. Whatever things Túrien had seen and done in Harmindon, those few weeks had changed her; Arwen saw it in the way she no longer sought the approval of her Gondorian peers, no longer deferred to men the way mortal women were so often expected to do. Even though it pained Arwen to see that Túrien's heart no longer lay in the White City, she was also proud to see the fire which would no longer be subdued in her daughter's spirit. It was only a matter of when now, not if.

Spooling up the last of the red thread gave Arwen a chance to sit back and admire her finished creation. She had but to weave the stray ends in, hiding them amongst the patterns of the weft, and this gift would be ready for giving. Arwen had begun this particular project the day Aragorn had left with Eldarion and Túrien for Harmindon. Call it foresight, call it wishful thinking, but somehow Arwen had always known that this scene which she had woven onto her loom would come to pass. She picked out a needle from her kit and set about tending to the loose ends.

After Túrien, Arwen imagined, would be Eruthiawen. Her eldest daughter was simply too much of a treasure not to be coveted by others. Arwen hoped though that Eruthiawen would set aside her unwavering sense of duty and follow her own heart when the time came to set the course of her future. It was difficult sometimes to know what Eruthiawen truly wanted, even for Arwen. Eruthiawen's grandfather had been much like that too. With a wistful pang, Arwen remembered how Elrond had always been so much to so many people. Ever ready to serve, always providing shelter, guidance, comfort to any who came upon the Last Homely House of Imladris. It seemed that her father had put others' happiness before himself, even Arwen and her beloved Estel. Especially the two of them, if Arwen was being perfectly honest with herself. Sometimes such memories made Arwen fearful for her own daughter's future; Eruthiawen showed the same readiness to be whatever those around her needed most. It was what had made Elrond so fondly admired by all who knew him...but what had also broken his heart time and time again throughout the ages.